Without fail, I eat dinner with my both parents every Thursday night. It's the only night in the week, apart from the weekends, that we're all in the house together.
Mostly it's my mum working late at work, or my dad deciding to hang out with his mates. Mum has also gotten into volunteering at soup kitchens, too. I don't particularly mind, but our once-a-week family meals are a regularity I've grown to enjoy.
"Hey," I call out as I walk downstairs after spending a couple of hours on homework.
"We're in the kitchen, babe!" My mum calls back; using one of the most annoying terms of endearment.
"How was your day, Rory?" My dad asks as he pushes cutlery into my hand.
I set the table and tell him, "It was fine."
"How's Lilia settling in?" Mum questions — and even though I love my parents and typically enjoy their company, I just can't seem to warm to their conversation the way I used to. Before that night changed so many things in my life.
"She's getting on alright, yeah." I scoff as I remember, "Apart from the fact she thinks Heather Towers is a good person."
"She isn't?" Dad frowns as he stacks plates into my open arms.
"Come on, Charlie, keep up!" Mum rolls her eyes in fake exasperation, before quickly explaining to Dad why Heather Towers is not a good person while I set the plates down on the table — pretending I'm out of earshot.
Once we're sat at the table with dinner in front of us — Mum's homemade quiche and veg — Dad asks, "How's school going?"
Almost automatically, I reply, "My grades are pretty good; I'm averaging high Cs, low Bs if I really work for it."
"How's school really going? How are your friends?" Mum sees past my front like she always does. She knows how to ask the difficult questions that Dad would rather avoid. Yet her hazel-coloured eyes soften; as always, she means well.
With Chance not here, Max and Lilia are my only two friends. It's odd how the absence of one person makes you realise how dependent upon them you truly are. All my eggs were in one basket, and now that basket has slipped from out of my hands, everything's cracking and fracturing — just like eggshells.
"It's alright." I shrug, before shovelling a forkful of quiche into my mouth — hoping the attention will turn away from me.
It doesn't; with Lauren off at uni, my parents only have one child to focus on. Shower me in love and attention, or whatever. It's disconcerting, really.
"Lovely quiche, Erin," my dad comments, smiling at Mum across the table. He's genuine and telling the truth; Mum's food rocks.
"I made another earlier in the week and took it over to the Harns' yesterday." Mum forces a frozen smile onto her lips.
She means well, I have to remind myself.
"I'm not sure food can make up for what happened." I chase a pea around my plate with the tip of my fork, mumbling out my words.
"What will then?" Dad asks; he's got the hearing of a fucking hawk and always has — probably always will, too. One day he'll be sat in an old folks' home, with deaf OAPs all around him, being able to hear everything within a two-mile radius.
I'm joking. Kinda.
But with his hearing, it's a miracle Lauren and I managed to keep any secrets when we were little kids. Though I guess we just got used to not telling people things aloud.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mum nudge Dad's leg under the table. Undoubtedly telling him to watch out for the eggshells, Charlie.
"Retracing the steps," I tell him like I've told him before.
"You're still set on following the steps in Chance's life leading up to her disappearance?" Mum checks.
"Yup." I bob my head, really not feeling like explaining why to them again.
"How's Max getting on with A Levels?" Dad questions — a normal enough question and yet I can't help but feel like he's gonna ask something else once I've finished.
"Fine, yeah." I swallow a mouthful and reach for my water; beginning to wish it wasn't a Thursday night and that I could just be eating dinner alone in my room like the loser I am.
"You should invite him and his parents around for dinner soon." Dad nods: I was right to think there was something more coming — though he doesn't seem to be questioning me about it at all. "We've not had them round in a while."
Social life-wise, my parents are the exact opposite of me. They're forever throwing dinner parties and get-togethers with their countless friends. And here's the thing: it's not even like they're distant friends, they're good friends with all of them.
Weird. I couldn't imagine being close friends with more than a handful of people.
"Mhm yeah, that'd be really nice." Mum backs Dad up. "We've not seen Ian or Brielle for ages."
Now equipped with the knowledge of how Max gets treated at home, I feel sick to my stomach at the mention of Max's parents — in particular, his dad.
"We don't need to." I shake my head. "I mean, I'm sure they're, like, really busy."
"No one's too busy for dinner," Dad tells me pointedly, literally pointing his fork at me as he speaks.
I dismiss the thought of Max's back; knowing I'd get worked up over it while trying to maintain a civil conversation. Not to mention the fact that if we stay on the topic of Max's family, my parents would be able to see straight through me. I change tack—
"Well, if we're having people over, does that mean my grounding is over soon?" I ask them, bouncing my leg anxiously under the table.
Not like I snuck out with Max last night or anything.
"As long as you don't go irritating Martin again, we'll think about it," Dad tells me.
"C'mon, seriously?" I exclaim and drop my fork to the table in exasperation; "That wasn't even my fault! I'm sorry for reminding him he has a daughter who just disappeared. My bad, really. Martin Harn was doing exactly the right thing because denial is just the best response to a tragedy. You know what, I—"
"Alright, alright!" Mum throws her hands up in mock defence. "No raised voices at the dinner table, Rory."
I could mumble an apology but I'm not sorry. "I just don't think I did anything wrong."
"It'd probably do him good to get out there, Charlie," Mum mutters across to Dad — not quietly or surreptitiously at all. "Give him a chance to socialise again."
Socialise — ew. The only people I'd want to socialise with are Max and Lilia. Well, mostly Max.
"Okay, Erin," Dad agrees, reaching out and squeezing her hand lightly; undoubtedly communicating a thousand words through that single touch.
I dream of one day having the love my parents share. They're the real deal: childhood and high school best friends turned lovers who never lost the simplicity of love, not even as the years roll on. Frankly, I'm running out of time to find the Erin Wright to my Charlie Brewer; but I keep hoping one day I will. Gotta keep the dream alive, right?
Dad turns back to me as if they hadn't just had a supposedly private conversation right in front of me — "Your grounding ends after tonight. Just don't go pissing off anyone else, got it?"
"Got it." I nod all excitable, a puppy being let off the lead for the first time.
We soon finish eating and I'm itching to get out of the house. A lifetime has passed me by since I last went skating, or so it feels. It's not even like I want to go so that I could meet up with Max again; it's so I can feel that freedom.
While helping tidy up, the thought surfaces; I could sneak out later tonight...
My parents didn't notice the fact I went out last night — as long as I'm not too exhausted tomorrow morning, I should be fine. I barely even have to turn the thought over more than a couple of times before I've made up my mind.
Fuck it. I'm only gonna be young once.
Sneaking out is fairly easy — especially when your parents trust you not to sneak out. It's simple: you go to bed at an average time; not too early and not too late, either. Then you lie in bed, fully dressed, and wait until your parents are fast asleep.
I hear Mum start snoring almost as soon as she gets into bed.
The fading glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling hold promises of true stars and accurate constellations. Those on my ceiling have no intentional arrangement — the only guidance they offer is the whimsical and fruitless journey back to a rose-tinted childhood. Lilia's Post-its are less striking in colour and appearance, and yet they provide so much more information.
Not to the full picture but fragments of it — fragments that will lead to other fragments. A jigsaw puzzle with no image to reference when piecing together the remnants.
I plan to take my longboard, which is less trick-based but ideal for cruising the streets and putting in a couple of sweet turns.
Dad soon joins in with Mum's snoring, indicating they're both out for the count. Speaking of the Count, he's never a problem when sneaking out — or sneaking back in, for that matter — he's a shitty guard dog 'cos he sleeps like a fucking log.
Easing out of bed, I reach for my longboard. Once I've checked my phone's in my back pocket, I quietly step down the stairs. There are sixteen in total and the third one to the bottom squeaks so I hop over it.
I slip on my Vans, grab my jacket and beanie in case it's cold, and make my way out of the front door. The back door would seem more logical; apart from the fact it's directly below my parents' room and it literally creaks so fucking noisily. And that would break the number one rule of sneaking out 101 — being quiet.
Setting my board down on the pavement, I plant my left foot firmly and scoot along with my right leg — gaining speed quickly and easily. The night air caresses my face, the traces of sea salt leaving kisses on my cheeks.
The road itself is dead, so I use a dip in the pavement to transition onto the smooth tarmac of the road. I consciously carve left, avoiding the road to Chance's.
I don't want to be sad about her tonight... I want my thoughts to stop, even just for one night.
On my right, the New Ridge Church's clock tolls the hour loudly — midnight. From this point on, it's officially Friday and I'm no longer disobeying my parents. It's the morning now.
And I am free.
In avoiding the right turn to Chance's, I also miss out on some of the smooth roads through the forest. Yet in going left, there's the beach; and with it, the beachfront promenade, which is mostly rideable. There's also Max's house, too.
I wonder if I'll see him.
So much for doing this for myself. Well, I've never really been the self-centred type; perhaps that's why I'm struggling so much to let people help me with Chance.
I could opt for another right turn but I put in a sweet heel-edge carve towards Max's. My logic is simple: I want to see him. I mean, I want to see if he's alright. Unbidden, the thought of his back surfaces. How I wanted so badly to trace my fingers over the marks, tell him I'll take care of him and hold him close—
What the fuck is wrong with me?
My thoughts jolt me, and my scooting foot catches one of the back wheels, throwing me off my board. The tarmac is not accommodating to my fall, it tears a hole in the knee of my jeans and scrapes my palms.
"Fuck," I groan as I get to my feet, brushing my jeans off — the pain is nothing; in spite of the empty street, the embarrassment is what stings the greatest.
Regaining the courage it takes to step back on the board, I start scooting off again. My hands prickle so I shake them out impatiently. Annoyed that I let my concentration slip so far out of reach to have a stupid and completely avoidable fall.
Seemingly from out of nowhere, another skater emerges from my blind spot. He's chuckling, "How does the floor taste, Rory?" It's Max; I eagerly scoot to skate parallel with him. "I mean, I just saw you eat it."
"Ha-ha." I fake-laugh, rolling my eyes — yet only in fake annoyance; the prior frustration within me has vanished.
I glance down to check out his board, out of habit, I guess. He's also opted for his longboard. He's riding goofy, meaning his right foot's his standing foot — and that he's facing me.
Irritatingly, he can switch between goofy and regular. Lucky bastard...
He looks down and sees my board too. "Well, you know what they say..." Max smirks and scoots further ahead, carving seamlessly as he cups his hands around his mouth and hollers into the night, "Great minds think alike!"
Laughing, I yell back, "Or fools never differ!"
"I always forget that part," I hear Max mumble, his voice is only just audible over the sounds of the sea to our right.
"That's alright, Max." I catch up with him easily, cruising side by side. "You and I can both be fools together."
There's a flicker of a moment when he appears to freeze — maybe in anticipation or in uncertainty; I have no clue. More and more often I end up wondering what exactly is going on behind those floppy brown curls and those rich brown eyes.
What are you thinking, Max Bellamy? Won't you tell me?
I put in a couple of hard scoots, before cruising some more. Wind rushing past me, I tilt my head back and look up to the stars. They shine down on us, stunning traces of long-dead wonders entrapped and ephemeral for those on Earth.
"You've always loved the stars," Max states abruptly, without hesitation or doubt; which is odd, 'cos normally it seems like he thinks a lot before he speaks or acts at all.
I look across at him as he skates parallel to me again. In the darkness, Max's outline shrugs.
I mirror him, shrugging back. "I guess I have, yeah."
"Why?" He blurts out, "What makes them worthy of your love?"
"I dunno," I tell him honestly, "I've never really had to explain it. I don't think anyone ever really explains why they love someone or something."
"Why do you think that is?" He questions as we continue skating, and I realise this is probably the deepest conversation we've ever had.
"Umm, I think love comes more naturally to us than we like to admit." I carve left and right a little. He stays silent, so I tell him, "I've been searching for moments of significance amongst the inconsequentiality of life... The stars are important — maybe that's why I love them."
Voice pensive, Max looks across at me, "Life becomes a lot more meaningful when you realise that you'll never get the same moment twice."
And so I hold onto this moment with him, knowing that I'll never get it again.